


Ignoring Doctors

by outerealm



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Multi, gen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:12:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outerealm/pseuds/outerealm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce Banner is not officially a doctor, though he has gained quite a bit of knowledge of patching up others in his travels. But he isn't the type to just simply open himself up to announce that he has this ability. </p>
<p>So, there are five times he doesn't heal his fellow members, and the one time he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ignoring Doctors

Bruce Banner was not a medical doctor.

This should be noted.

Although he had gone through many of the prerequisites for becoming a doctor while in college, he had never become an actual doctor.

So he was not officially a doctor. Again this is a very important detail.

But, just because it was never _official_ doesn’t mean he didn’t know how to be a doctor. And just because he knew how to play doctor didn’t mean he whipped out his skills at the slightest opportunity.

_Tony Stark_

The tall man stood, tall, straight and proud at the head of the table, a saucy grin was plastered to his face. His right hand massaged his shoulder as he laughed at something that the archer said.

Bruce counted the sweatdrops on the mans face, watched the tiniest of tremors run through the hand.

“Please doctor, please, if I can’t work, my family can’t eat!” The dark low voice spoke rapidly in the cooling night air. Cicadas buzzed loudly, masking footsteps.

Clinical eyes ran over him, counting the syndromes.

_Left arm trembling._

_Shortness of breath._

_Paleness._

_“A heart problem. But… I don’t think I can help. It’s risky.”_

_There were herbs in the forest, where trees reached out to strangle, shady caves without name, water that ran clearer then tap water. A mixture should help the man. For awhile. “It won’t work forever.”_

_“Just a little longer, until my kids are grown doc. Just a little longer…”_

_A desperate man. He could understand that burning, churning, eating desperation that cut off all other thoughts. “I- I will do my best.”_

“Bruce, hey Bruce, is there something you like?” Tony Stark snapped his fingers arrogantly at him, and Banner looked directly into his eyes, to see dilated pupils. Certainly not in lust though.

Pain was a better answer.

“No Stark. I was merely remembering something.”

It wasn’t like he was really all that obligated to the Avengers. Certainly, he had kind of chosen to come, but in the end, it wasn’t much of a choice. Besides, he wasn’t exactly beholden to Tony Stark, who had JARVIS.

He swore he could have heard his mind tut as he stood, gathering papers. “By the way Stark, when have you gone in for a medical examination?”

Having done his duty, he fled the room. He did smile slightly, ever so slightly, when he heard Stark curse under his breath, and heard the sound of Rogers standing up from his chair.

_Steve Rogers_

It was shortly after battle, when Bruce realized that Rogers had what effectively mounted to a sprained ankle.

On a normal human, it would be a snapped leg. But Rogers was a superhuman. So merely a sprained ankle at that.

Either way the man had his leg propped up on a seat cushion, and what looked like ice packed in around it. That part didn’t really bother him; obviously a doctor had given Ste-Rogers very clear instructions on how to take care of a sprained ankle.

The problem was that they hadn’t done anything other then tell him to put ice on it. There wasn’t even a paste to help reduce the swelling.

_The old crone sat in the dirt and wood hut. Sightless eyes saw beyond the darkness, and a toothless mouth tugged up into a smile as he carefully watched._

_There were plants, twined and intertwined around her head, as part of her body as hair might have once been. A stick thin arm rose, pulling a single herb out of the pile. She brought it to her nose, sniffed, and crushed it._

_Juice trickled down dark skin. The farmer, clutching the tools of life to his chest brightened. He had come bearing food- food enough to feed his family for at least a week. In exchange, he came for a paste to make his ankle, swollen as a beehive, stop aching to bring in more food._

_The old woman ripped off the leaves of the plant, using it to stir the cocktail forming in the bowl._

_Two men watched._

_One left with a well body- the other left with **knowledge.**_

Rogers snorted slightly, shifting the tiniest bit to the right. Golden hair caught the sunlight for a single moment, burnished metal that caught men in its snare.

Bruce turned around and walked away.

_Phil Coulson_

The S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent was _not_ an Avenger. Not by a long shot. Instead, he was their glorified nanny and babysitter. At least, according to him.

Bruce knew him as the mildly irritating man that had refused to let him into a laboratory. He was also the irritating man, that after every Avengers mission, while Hulk slowly sloughed off to plain little Bruce Banner, would proceed to kidnap said scientist and whisk him away to an isolation cell where they could monitor his progress.

It just made him more tense really. It was cold, too bright, too empty.

But Coulson massaged his forehead, muttering dire implications under his breath (Bruce heard tazing and Super Nanny before disregarding the rest). He clung to a cup of coffee, attempting to restart his brain at two in the morning.

Bruce leaned against a destroyed wall (not his destruction- it was Ste- _Rogers_ fault this time) and watched him take a sip of cold caffeine. He looked above Coulsons head to where special cabinets held special tea.

Really special tea.

_He awoke to cool fingers drifting across his forehead, tracing runes of ancient powers long forgotten. Eyes slowly cracked open, blurry figures swimming indistinctly in the corner of his eyes._

_His heart rate instantly began to skyrocket. Where was he? Not back with General Ross right, please not General Ross-_

_Something warm, burning and completely and utterly calming slipped past his lips. He blinked one, twice, and felt his heartbeat return to normal._

_He spent three weeks, the longest he had ever spent with anyone before… before everything._

_But for three weeks he learned how to make tea. And for three beautiful, wonderful weeks, he didn’t change either, his memories full of warm hands, beautiful smiles, and a kiss that he cherished above almost all other kisses from a eight year old girl._

Bruce straightened from his perch on the rubble, and jumped down.

He wasn’t willing to share that part of his life yet- spoken or unspoken.

_Thor_

Bruce didn’t even know how this could be possible. Thor was a God. A puppyish, charming, and rather obtuse demi-deity, but one none-the-less.

And he was scowling at a burn mark that slowly wound its way down his arm, poking and prodding at it carefully. Steve chided him, and Ton- wait, reboot mind. _Rogers_ was playing nursemaid, and _Stark_ was busy rooting through the fully packed first-aid kit Coulson (why did his brain want to substitute the word agent before his name?) had provided before going home to watch Super Nanny.

There hadn’t been a huge battle against evil villains looking to rule/destroy/enslave/wipe-clean-and-start-anew, but there had been a huge battle. Thor vs. Oven.

Oven lost by heroically blowing up, and Thor got a burn.

Clint- no, Burton -snickered as he took pictures. “I can’t wait to post this on youtube! The mighty god of thunder can’t cook!”

Thor scowled. “Dost thou make jest of my failings?” The dangerous growl filled the room.

Bruce took a discreet step back- he had been a very good monster, and hadn’t hulked out unexpectedly in nearly a month. Only hulking out on missions like a good boy. No need to break that record.

Steve pressed a calming hand against Thor’s shoulder, forcing him further down. “Calm down Thor. Tony, where’s the antiseptic?”

“Looking for it. Why is there silly putty in the first aid kit?”

Clint dove for it instantly. Tony kicked him out of the way.

Natasha caught the kit, and pulled out the anti-septic.

Bruce left them to their mothering. No need to join in when he was quite simply redundant.

_Natasha Ramanova_

The woman was scary on a good day, and on a bad day such as this, when she was busy kicking the wall and glaring daggers at everyone else, no one dared get near her.

Not even Coulson, and seeing Thor in a frilly apron and nothing else hadn’t even startled that man. Not even a twitch of an eyebrow!

Either way, Ramanova was glaring daggers at any man who dared come close. Tony, bless his little lizard brain, had left behind lots of pain killers and lots of different womanly products (some of which Bruce itched to pull apart and know what created it) and disappeared.

Bruce should have disappeared by now as well. But he was hungry, after pulling a twenty hour stint in the lab, and Natasha was busy pulling apart the kitchen, looking for something to eat that wouldn’t upset her any further.

Eventually she settled on Yogurt (wrong choice. It would only upset her further.) and a glass of ice cold water. Spiked with vodka. Or maybe it was vodka spiked with water? Another bad choice.

It would be better, like he had learned around campfires of tan skinned people, to heat up a bag of beans and let the warmth suck out the pain.

There were also a few traditional roots to chew when lying back, but many of the women were working within a few hours.

He glanced at the cupboard that held beans, and glanced at the microwave.

Natasha turned and glared.

He scuttled out instantly.

_Clint Burton_

The archer was sick. As in, sick with a disease that none of the doctors could quite get a grasp on. There were suggestions ranging from the plausible swine flu or some other rare/exotic disease, and the utterly impossible of the common cold.

Bruce knew colds. They didn’t leave you shaking and shivering, curled up in your bed wishing for swift death then the long, agonizing creep.

He’d been close to that- he had been hulked out, exhausted, tired, and starving, stomach slowly eating its way inside out. It was funny to think that might be the way to kill the Hulk- slowly starve his way to death.

But then there had been warm hands, so very soft and tender; a low voice that urged him to sit up, the sickly sweet smell of herbs being crushed, the bitter taste of draught being poured between his lips. He could remember the fire dancing with shadows, the dark eyes and skin that sat him up.

He stared at Agent Coulson, sitting stiffly by Clint’s bed, knew that Natascha was staring coldly at the doctors, willing them to work faster. Thor had been taken aside by Steve, to explain what was ailing the archer. Stark was furiously building something in the lab.

It wasn’t often the Avengers were useless. Especially not this kind of useless where friends died by inches, and there was nothing one could do.

Another flash of those ancient herbs, sickly sweet drifted through his mind.

He could replicate it. It probably wouldn’t help much, but it would be better then nothing. Bruce stood, and drifted out of the room, disappearing into the Stark Conservatory, where hundreds of rare and exotic plants grew.

He came back out, arms full, and found himself sitting by Clints bedside.

_Why am I doing this?_

The thought echoed in his mind, hauntingly mocking. He ruthlessly shoved it away, bent over his herbs and plants, and remembered.

The old man regarded him with dark eyes, but still understanding. His people owed Banner a debt, and Banner was sick. Sick from the men who hunted him. Therefore, the witch-doctor was quite determined to save the life of one who had helped.

_“Ta’lanthana, ta tan taman-“ Ancient words, whose meaning only he knew whispered and lingered in the air, coiling like a snake._

“Ta’lanthana, ta, tan taman.” Bruce whispered in memory, grinding leaf with pulp, the thin gruel like substance taking shape. Burton watched him with fever-bright eyes, not really understanding what Bruce was doing.

That was fine, Bruce didn’t either.

He knew the basic concept yes, but taking care of friends- no, Yes? Maybe friends? Teammates. Teammates was a good word.

So he didn’t answer the questioning looks he got for the next week, as he nursed Clint back to health, (the conservatory rapidly got a lot more plants, and he never did run out of the ones he did utilize) and he didn’t shirk from his self-imposed duties.

The fever broke, and Bruce smiled, leaned back, and realized for the first time in a week, his hands were caked in some sort of red powder- much like the witch doctor. He lifted hands above his head, and Clints cracked, low, warm voice asked, “So doc, what’s the verdict?”

“You’ll live to annoy Coulson another day Clint.” Bruce stood, feeling muscles protest. “I’ll inform him you’re awake.”

“No need.” Bruce didn’t jump in surprise. That would be Clint who jumped, and attempted to refocus his eyes. Even though Clint was really too weak to move.

Coulson and Natasha slid past him, and Bruce began to scramble to make way for them, sweeping up scattered pieces of plant with him. A heavy hand fell on his shoulder, practically pinning him in place.

He peered upwards to see Steve fall in over his right shoulder, Tony right behind Steve (for once). Thor came in, on tiptoes, trying to keep quiet (not that the man knew how to keep quiet for long, but it was the thought that counted).

“You did a good job Bruce.”

“Clint did the hard work.”

“Good job Bruce.” Steve repeated, and Bruce sank into the chair. Let his eyes close. It was the end... and the beginning. The beginning to a new chapter in life, that he could really begin to enjoy.

~Fini~


End file.
